Page 14 of Enemies to Lovers

“You don’t have to.”

His broad shoulders shake with silent chuckles as he climbs out of the car, taking a giant red stuffed lobster with him.

“It’s Brewster’s favorite,” he says, then squeezes the middle. A loud squeak fills the air, along with the familiar scent of fresh paper and ink that I associate with Miles. He seems to always have a pen on him somewhere, and when I study his big coat, I see the tip of one sticking from his front zipper pocket.

“Brews, buddy,” he calls out, squeaking the lobster again, then whistles. “Here, boy.”

My breath puffs out in a shaky cloud, and I beg my eyes not to leak. They’re already watery from the cold; I don’t need pesky tears making it worse.

The jangle of Brewster’s collar fills the air, and Miles tries again. “Brewster!” He whistles and squeaks, and the pattering of doggy nails against the sidewalk gets closer. The white spot on the top of his head comes into view first.

“Oh!” My relief doesn’t hide my panic in the slightest. Miles hands the lobster to me with a slight smile, and I give it a squeeze. “You naughty, naughty pup.” I hand the lobster over, and then Brewster runs right past me and up to Miles. He bounces around Miles mile-long legs, whipping him with his tail. His tongue lolls out, and he barks once, but Miles puts a finger out to quiet him.

“He’s not usually a runner,” Miles says, scratching behind my dog’s ears. I try not to get jealous, but I fail on every level.

“He seems to come running for lobster.” I wave my hand out. “Would’ve been nice to have it in the take home package.”

“Yeah, we aren’t allowed to do that…”

Miles runs his hand through that overgrown hair, avoiding my eyes. I wrap the leash around my hand three times over. “Well, thank you for making an exception.”

He offers to take the leash, but I shake my head. I want to walk Brewster, and I’ve got to learn how to control his tugging.

“D-did you want a ride back to your place?” Miles can’t seem to look at me directly. Do I have a booger or something?

I swipe at my nose, and he wrings his hands together. Ah… this must be a him thing. His nerves don’t bother me; I’m used to seeing them every time before an exam, and I wonder what has him all discombobulated. He was just my knight in shining armor.

“It’s just a few blocks that way.” I nod in the direction. “But I am cold. Brewster gave me a snow facial.”

“Just taking you up on that spa treatment,” Miles teases, and I love the dimple that appears, barely visible underneath his beard, but darn sexy nonetheless.

“Still bitter?” I tease.

“Never.”

He totally is, and I bump my shoulder into his arm and walk Brewster to his car. “He’s okay to sit in the back?”

“Or the front.” He grins and finally meets my gaze. “You can sit in the back.”

“Ha ha.” Holy wow, I love those gorgeous eyes. They are the perfect shade of hazel, and I can see right into his sweet soul.

We climb into the warmth of his car, and I immediately put my hands to the heater. Fingerless gloves are great for using my phone, but not great for walking an undisciplined dog.

His car smells fresh, like pine or Christmas tree scented, cozy and homey, and I sink into the seat warmer. “Thank you. I’d spend all night looking for him.”

“He’s a bit of a pest like that.” He says it like he’s annoyed, but he reaches back and scratches Brewster’s chin lovingly. Brewster leans into his touch, and I’m insanely jealous… but I’m not sure of who.

“How long was he at the shelter?”

“Just under six months.” Miles lets out a soft sigh, giving Brewster one last pat before settling his hand on the wheel. “It was longer than any of us wanted for him, but his breed rarely gets adopted.”

“Really? I thought the stigma against pits was long gone.”

Miles shakes his head. “A lot of people who adopt have kids, and they’re a bit skeptical when they meet Brewster, here. He’s a little wild.”

“But that’s why he’s so perfect,” I say in my doggiest voice, squeezing his cheeks and giving him a boop. Brewster pulls from my grasp and turns to Miles. He gives him a mighty lick, splashing my arm in the process. We both wipe the drool with our sleeves and laugh.

“I just wish he didn’t yank me down the street,” I say. “Or bolt the second he’s free.”

---